


Khallia Drabbles

by alistairweekend



Series: Khallia Hawke [1]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Domestic, F/M, Family, Fluff, Gen, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-14 17:53:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3420068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alistairweekend/pseuds/alistairweekend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of shorter drabbles featuring Khallia Hawke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Duende

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Response to the prompt: "Unusual power to attract or charm."

What was it about Hawke? Fenris couldn’t keep his eyes off of her, much to his chagrin. He would glance one way only to find her in his field of vision again seconds later, focusing on something different every time — her eyes, a sparkling, lake-on-a-bright-summer-day blue even in the dim light of the tavern; her smile, full and wide and open in hearty laughter and witty jests; her hands, long and slender fingers smoothing back her ginger hair and lingering on her neck before reaching for more coins to throw into the center of the table. Each time Fenris found it harder and harder to pull his gaze away, and each time he snapped to his senses he became more and more irritated at himself. It would only be a matter of time before—

"Hey, Broody, are you gonna stop gawking at Hawke and join the next round or what?"

A burst of laughter erupted from the table. Fenris’ face burned all the way to the tips of his ears, and he hoped either the hazy air or his friends’ drunkenness prohibited them from noticing. But as he went to take a seat with all the feigned dignity he could muster, he noticed Khallia — Hawke — was not guffawing with laughter as the others were, instead eyeing Fenris with an unusually small smile. When their eyes met a rather high-pitched giggle escaped her lips and she looked away quickly, covering her mouth in mortification. It was… kind of adorable.

"I bet five silvers that Fenris will kiss her first," Isabela announced, very loudly, to the group. "Anyone willing to say otherwise?" A cacophony of noise ensued as Fenris and Khallia snapped their gazes to the table to look on in horror.

Fenris grabbed a mug of ale. He was going to need it.


	2. Dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Khallia teaches Fenris how to dance.

Khallia moves gracefully, naturally. She guides Fenris with surprising gentleness as they glide around the room, soft hands cool against his pulsing tattoos and warrior’s callouses. He can feel a buried energy in them, but she’s skilled at controlling her powers, and no magic touches him. Her eyes are closed and a pleasant smile adorns her tanned face, different than the usual playful grins she gives left and right. Clearly she is off in her own world at the moment, yet despite this she is deft at maneuvering her feet so Fenris’ don’t collide with her own. Evidently she is well-versed in ballroom dancing, a rather odd fact considering her aversion to living up to her noble status.

He remembers how just the other day she danced, outside his mansion in the rain, shouting with glee and begging him to come outside and join her. Fenris had refused, but watched from the shelter of his mansion’s front door with an amused quirk in his mouth. Khallia’s movements had been jerky, excited, impulsive — much like her personality, and nothing like the smooth and effortless actions she made now.

Quite suddenly Fenris stumbles, and Khallia’s hands tighten ever-so-slightly around his shoulder and his own hand, just enough to brace him without stopping completely. Her brilliant blue eyes open to meet his, and she raises an eyebrow, back to her teasing self. “You’re getting better, Fenris, but maybe not quite so good as to stare at my face the whole time. I know, I’m irresistible,” she added, batting her eyelashes humorously, then chuckling at herself.

"That you are," Fenris agrees, and the seriousness of his tone catches Khallia off-guard, to the point where  _she_  stumbles.

Glaring at him, she regains her composure, although it’s obvious she’s still flustered. “Shut up, or I’ll have to kiss you.”


	3. Sick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Khallia and Fenris' daughter Cerise has a cold and is very bored.

Despite being good for nearly everything else, magic still had yet to come up with a cure for the common cold.

Being a spirit healer, Khallia knew this better than most. But such facts meant nothing to an eight-year-old girl who wanted nothing more than to play outside.

Cerise lie in her bed, taking a noisy sniff and pouting at her mother, green eyes glassy with illness but still holding a fire inside. “You heal cuts and scrapes all the time. Why can’t you make my cold go away?”

Shaking her head, Khallia wiped a smudge of dirt from her daughter’s cheek — a leftover from a little foray into the woods to play against her parents’ wishes before Khallia had found her and drug her back home — before answering. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you, magic doesn’t cure colds, dear. My answer isn’t going to change.” A small chuckle escaped her at the end, despite her attempts to be stern.

"I’m just a bit sneezy. I don’t see why I can’t go and play with Da and Sable…" Cerise gazed longingly out the window, where her father and brother sat by the pond outside. Khallia didn’t bother to point out they weren’t even playing — the two were probably simply talking, as they liked to do being the quieter members of the family, and Cerise would undoubtedly find it immensely boring.

"Well first of all, we don’t want you getting  _them_  sick.” Khallia pressed a hand to Cerise’s forehead, bringing her attention back to her. “And then you still have a fever. The less you rest, the longer it’s going to take for you to get better. Which means less play time.”

Cerise gave a long, suffering sigh, and Khallia tried not to laugh. She had acted similarly as a child, and a faint pang of guilt resounded in her. She offered a silent but sheepish apology to her own mother.

"What do you say, want to try and sleep now?"

"Hmm…" The girl crossed her arms and tilted her head to the side, red locks tumbling down her shoulder, in consideration of the idea. A thought seemed to strike her as she abruptly sat up straight again. "Only if you tell me a story!"

"A story?" Khallia chuckled.

"Like the ones Varric tells."

Khallia laughed louder at the reference. “Well! I don’t know if I can fill in Varric’s shoes. He is a professional, after all.” She paused, thinking for a moment. “But I  _can_  tell you about the time an assassin named Tallis brought Sebastian, your uncle Carver, and me to a castle in Orlais…”

Ten minutes later, Cerise was fast asleep, more exhausted from her cold than she let on. “I’ll have to finish my story later, it seems,” Khallia whispered. Smiling fondly, Khallia leaned forward to kiss her daughter’s forehead before leaving the room.


	4. A Bitter Taste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Inquisition, I was unfortunately forced to do the unthinkable and sacrificed Khallia in the Fade... I'm still trying to decide if I want my canon to be that she eventually escapes or if she actually does die. This is an exploration of what her daughter Cerise might grow up like without her mother raising her.

Cerise Hawke looked like her mother.

She knew this because she had been told so all her life. _“You look just like the Champion. You look just like Khallia.”_

Red hair and sunkissed skin; a long and slender nose with a gentle bridge; cheekbones pronounced, creating the frame to a heart-shaped face — the only physical traits Cerise had not apparently inherited from her mother were her eyes, a cool green covered with hooded lids. They sometimes deceived others, their softness hiding the fire that burned in Cerise’s soul.

That was something else she allegedly inherited from her mother as well, and people did not hesitate to let Cerise know this either. “ _Festis be unum canavarum,_ ” her father would tell her every time he discovered her in the act of one of her endless shenanigans. A phrase he said to her mother, back before Cerise had been born.

 _“You have her smile. You have her laugh. You have her humor. You have her spirit.”_ People said these things with a fond (albeit sometimes also pained) smile, and expected her to take it as a compliment.

But after so many times, Cerise found herself resenting the comparisons. She was _herself_ , not her mother. Not the Champion of Kirkwall.

Maybe she would have appreciated it more if the compliments were not always tinged with sadness and pity. If her father didn’t feel the pain he failed to hide from his face when he looked at her sometimes. Or, better yet, if Cerise could even remember her mother.

Khallia Hawke was long gone. The only gift she had left for her daughter was a face Cerise felt was not her own.


End file.
